


Cacodaemonomania

by stapling_pages



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad end, Bottom Tom Riddle, Fairy Tale Elements, HP: EWE, M/M, Obsessive Harry Potter, Possessive Harry Potter, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Time Travel, Tom Riddle is a Disney Princess, Top Harry Potter, in a horror story, will there be a golden ending? probably not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 09:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: There's something broken in Harry Potter. But don't worry, he knows how to fix it.





	Cacodaemonomania

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what I wrote instead of working on what I was supposed to! This fic!
> 
> But really, why aren't there more time travel/universe jumping fics where Tom is the one being pulled around? Its the best set up for it.
> 
> Also note that this is my first sex scene, so please be gentle on that front.

Stars gleam before his eyes, swirling and twisting together like snow flurries. Bone white, ember red, and ashen silver. They dance to the melody humming in his veins, never faltering and so, _so_ lovely. It’s easy to forget the world beyond them, that people exist on the same plane as him—that he’s human, too.

(But he isn’t, not really, not like they are. Born in a barren womb and of false love, a miracle of terrible origins; an impossible thing. _Magic._ )

It gets him into trouble sometimes, that he’s so caught up in what he can _see_. The matron and her underlings don’t like to be ignored, nor do the other children. He isn’t sure why they want his attention when they seem to hate him so much. But they do. They clamor for it with sharp words and clawed hands—forced, stolen moments in dark corners, and bloody lips—skittering about like rats in the walls.

He decides early on that he doesn’t like humans. Doesn’t like how they sneer and pull and demand he looks at _them_ and not at things they can’t see. He makes the mistake of telling them about the stars once. (Foreign hands hold him down. Needles are under his skin. The world bleeds and blurs and—) He never makes that mistake again. So he hides in his room, alone with his books and the stars, suspended between moments like a waking dream as he waits. Held aloft in the cracks of the world as everything waits.

(In a different time, in a different place, a stone begins rolling.)

**.**

There’s nothing quite like the wizarding world, Harry decides. He’s caught between love and hatred, desperate to remain and be wanted but scornful of the price. The ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ was a mask he’d put on willingly but now, he’s found that it’s been nailed to him, gouged into his flesh and bone. Harry isn’t sure he can remove it. Merlin knows, he wants to. There’s nothing more he’d like than to shed its weight, to become another face in the crowd.

But who’s going to let the Boy-Who-Lived disappear?

**.**

Sirius dies, not in a blaze of glory, but in a whisper.

He can feel his world shattering, bit by bit. A terrible, ashen blackness eats at his heart and Harry wants nothing more than to make things be _good_ again. But he can’t, not yet. Voldemort still lives, roaming the world with death following at his heels like a fervent admirer.

Maybe once things are finished, he’ll feeling like himself again.

(It rolls and rolls.)

**.**

He dies.

He **l i v e s**.

**.**

The world moves on but Harry doesn’t.

Everything feels like a slow nightmare. He’s in a misty town with no monsters—but there aren’t any people either. Only a lingering unease and the sense that something irreplaceable has gone missing. (What is sixteen years to a soul? An instant; an eternity—you were mine ~~once~~ always.) It drives him mad bit by bit.

Days blur together. Grimmauld becomes a sanctuary and prison, shielding him from the world but taunting him with shadows of the past. Hermione tsks, and murmurs of traumatic stress. The Weasleys have closed ranks in their mourning, so they never notice. He wastes his days in sleep, running from the wrongness of it all.

But he can’t run. He dreams of pale skin, bright-dark eyes, and soft moans; of a lovely, pliant body under him, around him. As close as he can make them to being one again. He wakes gasping _that name_ , aching and frustrated and— (I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ , please come back. **_Please._** ) Everything else is chased from his thoughts, until he can’t go through a day, _an hour_ without being reminded of _him_. Obsession sets in. Harry must get him back, has to.

Harry reclaims the Resurrection Stone. Giddy, he turns it over in his hands, calling and calling . . . but there is no answer. He loses himself in his rage. By the time he returns to himself, the land around him is cinders and ash. If the Stone won’t work, Harry will find another way.

No matter what, they’ll be together again.

(The stone cracks.)

**.**

His world changes in the haze of summer. The appearance of venom green stars heralds the arrival of another orphan, a boy his age. The boy demands his attention too, but doesn’t get mad when Tom becomes lost to the stars. Instead he watches Tom watch them, petting his hair and nearly too close for comfort. Its only when Tom focuses on another human that he becomes angry. But never at Tom.

Amy Benson screams of flesh-eating maggots for days after she forces her company on them, scratching at her arms and begging for someone to get them off of her. The doctors come to see her. Tom hides in his room, wrapped in blankets and Harry’s arms, refusing to leave until they’re gone. Harry smiles into his hair, kisses his cheeks, and whispers promises of forever—eternity.

It sounds like a lie but the flicker of stars says it isn’t.

**.**

A wizard comes along to tell them of magic. Harry smiles emptily at the bearded man, a calming hand tight on Tom’s knee, and does all the talking. (Nothing burns but the depths of Harry’s hatred.) The wizard is weary, no doubt feed tales by the matron, and deeply concerned. Tom watches the stars around him—his magic, sea glass blue and green—spiral in tight clusters. Is this what control looks like? Beside him, Harry snarls.

“We don’t need your help.”

Tom drags his attention from the stars and stares.

The wizard looks reproachful, eyes cold behind his half-moon glasses, and Harry . . . Harry looks angrier than he’s ever seen him. He hopes Harry isn’t foolish enough to try using his magic on a trained wizard. Just to be sure, though, Tom threads his arm around Harry’s and leans against him.

Harry breathes slowly. “If that will be all, professor?”

(The stone wasn’t a stone.)

**.**

At Hogwarts, they are sorted into slytherin. Two orphaned, penniless mudbloods in a house of old laws and old money. They live in exile, but this suits them fine. Their world of two has no need for outsiders. But, Tom thinks, it still hurts.

“We don’t need anyone else,” Harry says after a particularly bad day. They lay curled together in Harry’s bed, nursing bruises and split lips. “We only need each other.”

“Hogwarts was supposed to be different.” He lets Harry pull him closer. Lets him press an innocent kiss to his mouth, tongue licking up blood and then tears. Fingers slip under his shirt, trailing over the small of his back.

“I know. I know.”

He doesn’t see the empty, pleased smile.

**.**

Years pass.

Unseen, a noose tightens.

(Where is your beloved? What has become of them?)

**.**

Tom knew that Harry didn’t want Malfoy around him, didn’t like that the pureblood was attempting to make nice and that Tom was allowing it, but this . . .

The body wheezes, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Fingers scrap across the floor, trying to pull the body away from Harry. Harry who stood there, grinning viciously with red streaked across his face and dripping from his hands, and waiting. For what, Tom doesn’t know.

The mess garbles Tom’s name and he flinches. Harry’s grin softens, smoothes into something warm and loving. (It never reaches his eyes. _Why didn’t I run?_ ) He puts a hand on Tom’s cheek, smearing red across his skin, and turns his face away from the bloody mess that’s become of Malfoy.

“Tom,” he breathes against his mouth, “become mine.”

What choice is there?

He lets himself be lead away to their secret room. Harry whispers soft things to him, strokes him gently as he strips him. Ignores the tremors in Tom’s body; ignores that he won’t look at him and doesn’t return the favor.

Ignores that Tom never agreed.

**.**

It hurts. He tries to lose himself in the magic around them, but Harry has lost patience with that, with him. Around his throat, a hand squeezes warningly.

“Look at me.” Harry pushes deeper, slowly and gently as if this is something Tom wants. “Look _at **me.**_ ”

Reluctantly, he obeys.

“There we go.” The hand moves, threading into his hair, holding him in place for a kiss. “I’ll take care of you, just like I always have. Just—” He rocks closer, moans. “Just don’t leave, okay?”

He repeats this over and over, in between gasps and kisses and groans, against Tom’s skin, as if he believes it. Repeats it like this promise still means anything.

His muscles tense, coil as pressure builds. He tries to lock his moans behind his teeth, but low whines slip through. Harry caresses his sides as he murmurs encouragement, thrusting harder and faster with each noise Tom makes.

Something snaps.

He arches, clamping down on Harry, and bites his lip hard enough to break skin, determined not to give him anything more. Harry groans loudly, sinks hard and deep into Tom, and drenches his insides with heat. They lay there, gasping for air, tangled together.

Tom hates.

**.**

Once upon a time, there were three brothers who brokered a deal with Death. They asked for three powerful items that would make them legends among men, and in return they swore their blood would serve Death. Amused, He agreed.

A wand, to reign victorious above all.

A stone, to recall the lost.

A cloak, to hide from even Death’s gaze.

They asked how they were to serve Death and He turned them away. There is only one of your blood I wish to serve me, He said, when my bride is born then I will collect your debt. Years passed. The three brothers sired children, as did their children, and their children’s children but still Death did not return. They kept their blood pure and strong for when He returned. Time went on and, eventually, their oath faded from memory.

Then, from a barren womb and of false love, a child was born. A vessel of flesh for Magic’s Will in Its rebellion against Death.

A bride.

Pleased, Death created His own vessel with which to lay claim to His bride. But what does a force like Death know of humanity?

(Whose heart have you taken in place of your own?)


End file.
